The Socialite
by FauxFame
Summary: It wasn't easy fitting in at an exclusive all girls' school like Huntington Hill. But in her senior year, Lilly finally felt as if she belonged. But Traci, who always got her way, had other plans
1. Welcome To Huntington Hill

**Well, I got the writing bug again. It's thanks to jrpopfan who has got me writing Traci/Miley flashbacks in her epic "She's Not A Girl, Not Yet A Mistress". If you get a chance to read it, it's freaking awesome.**

**Anywho, this is a TOTAL AU story...and guess what...IT IS NOT LILEY...this is going to be a Traci/Lilly story. Why? Cos I need to get back into writing, and...well, what can I say. After speaking with Romi Dames over the past few months, my obsession with the nasal-voiced socialite has grown even more. So don't like, don't read. **

**This is also loosely based on a book that I loved when I was a teenager called "Crush" by Jane Futcher. Helped me get through some feelings.**

**Oh, and insert standard 'I Don't Own Shit' disclaimer here.**

Our friendship began on a clear, crisp October afternoon one month after the start of senior year. The H1N1 virus was running rampant, claiming lives when it was least expected, 'New Moon' was to be released within the next month, and the world was finding themselves addicted to Twitter. But at Huntington Hill, it was the day before the second hockey game of the season, and they had put me back on the team.

They put me back in because Heather's mother married an Englishman and sailed off to England on a honeymoon, taking Heather with her. Heather's leaving had been something of a scandal because of a strictly enforced Huntington Hill rule prohibiting parents from withdrawing their children after term began. Nonetheless, for that very rich woman Albert Corelli, the new headmaster, waived a rule that had never been broken during the tranquil 15-year reign of Miss Karen Kunkle.

Scandal or not, Heather's sudden departure made me very happy because they played me in her old position. Actually, center forward had been my position until Heather had decided she wanted it, and beat me out. Hockey was about the only thing that made boarding at Huntington Hill bearable. I loved playing with the team, working out in the cool fall afternoons, completing a perfect series of passes with the forward line. I was playing well that year, with the wild, loose energy of an animal released from captivity. The ease with which I dodged past the defense, led the forwards down the field, and flicked hot shots over the goalie's stick amazed me as well as the coaches.

The school felt different that fall. I guess it was a beautiful place-thirty acres of green, forested land nestled in the foothills near Franklin, Tennessee. Several of the dorms were white clapboard houses left from the days when the land was a dairy farm. On the left, by the Hill Road entrance, were the lower pastures where the school's horses grazed. On the right were the white-fenced riding rings. Beyond them was the forest, carved with hundreds of rambling, winding trails. Farther along the drive were the dorms, and at the end was the parking lot, shaded by tall elms and bordered by a cluster of other buildings: the brown shingled gym, the white mansion that had once been the manor house and was now the center of campus life.

This year the school buildings seemed to radiate a quiet, classical elegance. The grass looked greener, like fresh paint oozing from a tube. The other students weren't as snobby and self-satisfied. Or maybe their attitude didn't bother me as much because I was playing hockey again and I knew in nine months I'd be graduating. I had almost convinced my mom that it was all right for me to go to UCLA instead of Vassar, and I was beginning to talk her out of being a debutante in June. I still hadn't gotten her to explain why, when she was always talking about equality, that she sent me to an all girls school, but I hadn't abandoned the project entirely.

For the first time, life in the dorm was fun. I stopped worrying about clothes and dates and rules. From the time we entered Huntington our lives were determined by rules. Rules about hair, skirt length, sock length, signing in, signing out, waking up, going to sleep, chewing gum, posture, promptness, and so on. The school was infested with rules that startled you like cockroaches crawling in a dark summer kitchen. Sometimes, during my first two years, I would wake up in a cold sweat, terrified that in the course of the day, I had accidentally broken a rule.

My new roommate, Miley Stewart, was much easier to live with than last year's, Mikayla, who was full of stormy moods and sarcastic remarks. If Mikayla was a thunderhead, Miley was a light, wispy cirrus. She had blonde highlighted chestnut locks and eyes that reflected the very sky. Senior year was going to be different, I knew it. My hunch proved correct.

On the day Traci and I became friends, there were orange and red and yellow leaves beginning to cover the ground. I remember the grass-still thick and green-and its sweet, aromatic smell as the workmen mowed the playing field in preparation of the game. I could hear the distant hum of their mowers and the exuberant laughter of the children in the Lower School yard as they played tag. When I passed the door of study hall and saw the rows of students poring silently over their books, I didn't feel the usual anxiety that made me automatically review my list of approaching quizzes, papers due, pages unread in history, biology, French, and English classes. I was easy and relaxed.

A blast of warm air, rich with the small of paint and turpentine, rushed into my face as I opened the door of the art studio. A Purcell horn sonata exploded from the speakers of the stereo. The pink afternoon sun slanted through the west windows, bathing the room in hot, rosy light. It was a generous room, filled with easels and workbenches, overlooking a pasture that rolled upward to a dairy farm. The ceiling angled sharply down on the far side, giving the impression of an artist's loft. From two to five every afternoon the studio belonged to students working on independent projects. Most of the regulars were already there.

Ashley DeWitt, the small, dark haired cheerleader from Seattle, was drawing animal cartoons as usual, an orange and gray striped scarf from a boys' prep school wrapped loosely around her neck. Joannie, a junior from New York, looked up and smiled, then returned to her huge sketchbook. Joannie always wore jeans and a blue work shirt, with a New York Mets baseball cap on her head, visor turned backwards, to keep her hair out of her eyes. She was my favorite of the regulars. Spread out on a workbench was Becky and Sarah, two sophomores, who were painting a giant mural for the dining room. Then there was Amber Addison, standing by her easel in the far right corner. Over the summer, Amber had developed some strange affectations. She had taken to wearing a French smock and beret, and she talked in a peculiar English accent, which I think she'd picked up on Cape Cod from her summer dates, who'd picked it up at Harvard.

"Ready for tomorrow's game, Lilly?" called Joannie as I pulled my easel away from the wall.

"Guess so," I said. "Ready as I'll ever be. You coming?"

"You bet," grinned Joannie.

"You bet," mimicked Amber from the corner. "Wouldn't miss it for all the shin guards in Siberia."

"Shut up, Amber," drawled Luanne. "Just because Miss Pennebaker's not here doesn't give you the right to mouth off."

"Well, ah nevah thawt a farm girl from Tennessee coud be sa rude," replied Amber.

"Where _is_ Miss Pennebaker?" I said. Miss Pennebaker was young and jolly and she usually hung around the studio in the afternoon. When she wasn't there, we talked too much and didn't work as hard.

"She's down at a faculty meeting," said Amber, pulling her beret down over her right eye. "I believe they're still discussing Heather leaving,"

"Still fighting over that?" said Joannie.

My confidence slipped a notch. "Is Heather coming back or something?" I said quietly.

Amber shrugged. "Who knows? Frankly, I think Mr. Corelli handled the whole thing most improperly."

"No one cares what you think" said Joannie, stalking over to Elizabeth's corner. "Would you _pulleese_ shut up."

For a while we all did shut up and the studio was quiet. I sighed. Since the summer I'd been painting from old photographs I'd found in a box in my grandma's house in Washington, D.C. I liked the pictures. They were a mixed bag of black and white, some Polaroids, and some glamour shots. Most of them were taken before I was born. There were snapshots of my mother as a baby, at summer camp in Wisconsin, arms draped around her bunkmates; shots of her when she lived in New York. She was dressed in short black dresses and hair feathered and drowned in hairspray. Her hair was blonde and poker straight and she often posed on the hood of a muscle car, in front of her building on East Sixty-Eighth Street. There were pictures of my father too, in college, sailing in California, looking young and happy, his collar unbuttoned, arms firmly guiding the tiller. There were others, of people I didn't know-women walking arm in arm on Fifth Avenue, men dressed in army uniforms, drinking whiskey at stylish New York bars. There were a few pictures of me, too, and I studied them carefully. In one, I was wearing a yellow dress for Easter and Mary Jane patent leathers. I stood stiffly against the wall of our house in Malibu, California- a prisoner in front of a firing squad. It looked like I might cry.

I pieced together the family history like an archeologist with pots and shards. Who were those people with their designer clothes and big smiles? When had my mother changed from an impish kid to a grown woman escorted by grown men? What about my father? Was he as serious and worried then as he seemed now? Did he know, as he sailed that boat, that he would become an accountant, or divorced from my mother? And why was I always so sad? So uncomfortable? Where was _my_ smile? Sometimes I felt like a detective. I was solving a mystery, but I wasn't sure what the crime was-or if a crime had even been committed.

If I'd been drawing myself the way I looked in that studio at school, the picture would have shown a tall, thin girl with nice legs, golden blonde hair, and shoulders raised in a perpetual, self-conscious shrug. Skin lightly tanned, grayish blue eyes retreating behind round cheeks, and an expression at once questioning and defensive. But I wasn't painting a self portrait. I was painting from a photograph taken in 1929-a picture of the All-County Girls' Basketball Team of Aretha County, Tennessee. All of the girls were white, and they stood on the steps of a high school gym wearing dark bloomer shorts and woolen tops. They looked very serious except for one girl, the captain, who stood on the bottom step grinning and holding a basketball on which the words "Aretha County" were painted on in white letters. She was shorter than the other girls but she had a sureness and style I liked. That smiling girl was my grandmother. I was working that day on her expression. The expressions were hard because they were so subtle, and the colors were hard because I was painting everything in shades of gray, to create the same flat, ghostly quality as the photograph.

I was working on my grandmother's smile when someone came crashing into the studio. Without looking up, we all knew it wasn't a regular. Regulars tried to enter quietly. The door slammed and a pile of books thudded to the floor.

"Shut up," hissed Amber.

"Screw you," came the nasal voice. And there was Traci-Traci Genevieve Van Horn. She was out of breath. Her hair was mussed and the dark, raven tresses absorbed the light to create a halo effect. She wore a designer overcoat over her blue school uniform and her navy knee socks had fallen to her ankles. Traci stared at us like a child peering at animals in the zoo.

"Ah, _mon Dieu_," she laughed. "I've interrupted _les artistes. Je vous demande pardon._"

"What on earth are you doing here?" Said Amber. Since ninth grade, when they'd roomed together, Amber and Traci had carried on a vendetta. They were both from New York City, both theatrical, and both sarcastic. But Traci was a school celebrity, a success. Her sharp tongue had a loveable side; her grades were always better than Amber's; and her popularity with boys was a legend at Huntington Hill. So was her family's wealth. Although Traci was seventeen, the same age as all the seniors, there was something _older_ about her. Her body seemed fuller and more mysterious, her dark eyes more discerning, her attitudes more sophisticated.

"I need a poster for Drama Club," said Traci, who was roaming the studio, looking over everyone's shoulder.

"Stay away from me," screamed Amber.

"You're painting nuns again, Amber," said Traci, holding both hands on her hips. "You shouldn't be painting nuns. Your mother paints nuns."

"Dammit, who asked you?" Amber turned her back to Traci and pulled up the collar of her smock.

Traci persisted. "Amber, it's not at all original to paint the same thing your mother paints. It shows a failure of imagination." Traci scanned the room to see if she missed anyone.

"Ah,Madamoiselle Truscott, great star _du hockey. Qu'est-ce que tu fais?_" Without waiting for an answer, Traci approached, squinting. I hated people to look at my paintings before they were finished. I was afraid that Traci might sabotage my self-confidence with one quick remark. But instead, she stood quietly beside me, weight sunk into her right hip, carefully examining each member of the All-County Girl's Basketball Team of Aretha County, Tennessee. The smell of Clive Christian's Imperial Majesty filled my nostrils.

"What is this, Truscott?" Traci's eyes were fixed on the painting. My eyes were fixed on her.

"It's the 1929 All County Girl's Basketball Team of Aretha County, Tennessee." I pointed to the figure at the bottom. "That's my grandmother."

Traci moved closer. She sighed. "I don't know what to say. It's very…unorthodox."

"It's not finished," I said. I was flattered by Traci's interest. She was a star-sparkling and sophisticated. I never thought she'd waste her time on me.

"I don't care if it's not finished," she said, distracted. "It's a…it's a fine painting. It's very moving." She pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and blew her nose. Then she looked up at me. "My grandmother died before I was born and my mother died when I was six. I live with my Daddy and a half brother…Evan." She closed her eyes. For a moment, she disappeared into another world. The color left her cheeks. Then she opened her eyes. "Evan's an ass," she said quickly. "So's my Daddy." She held my arm. "You're lucky to know your grandmother, Lilly." Traci pushed her hair out of her eyes.

"Amber," she yelled, in a colder voice. "Come over here and look at this painting."

Amber didn't answer. She dabbed black paint on her nun's habit. "_You _didn't discover Lilly," she said finally.

I was surprised. Amber usually criticized everything I did-from my choice of subjects to the way I mixed paint.

Traci cleared her throat. "Truscott," she said loudly, "I would like _you_ to make my Drama Club poster."

Amber cackled. "Do your own dirty work Traci Genevieve. Truscott has better things to do."

"You keep out of this." Traci turned to me and held my arm. Her eyes were wide and hopeful. "Lilly, will you help me? I need to announce my new-girl tryouts."

Amber hurried to my corner of the room. "She's a con artist, Lilly. Don't let her take advantage of you."

I looked at Traci.

"When do you need the poster?" I said.

"Don't, Truscott."

"Shut up, Amber." Traci gazed at me. I felt as if her brown eyes might swallow me. "Actually, I need it today- right now, in fact!"

I shrugged. What was there to lose? It wouldn't take me long. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Truscott, you've been had." Amber retreated to her corner.

With Traci leaning over my shoulder, her perfume floating by me, I hand-lettered the poster. It wasn't easy, with so much to distract me, but I did it. I even did something extra-a little drawing of a man and a woman, in 1930's clothes, dancing- Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The woman was leaning backward in a daring arch. The man's arm supported her.

"It's beautiful," said Traci. She slipped her arms around me. "The new girls will think the Drama club is hot stuff."

"Jesus," grumbled Amber, eyeing us suspiciously.

"Know something Lilly?" said Traci quietly. "You don't breathe when you paint. I was watching you."

"She's actually a fish," called Amber. "She only breathes underwater."

"Really, Lilly. You don't breathe. Here, feel me." Traci placed my hand on her stomach. She breathed slowly, her abdomen rising and falling under my hand. "You see, I'm really breathing," she said. "You should be breathing this way when you paint. In and out, in and out." Her hands were on top of mine. "When I breathe, my whole diaphragm contracts. Feel?"

"What are you doing to Truscott?" Amber was staring at us. Joannie and Ashley and the sophomores were staring too.

"Never mind them, Lilly. Do you feel?"

I nodded.

"You're white as a sheet, Lilly." Said Amber.

"The point is," continued Traci, "if you hold your breath when you paint, you can't paint as freely. You can't do _anything_ as well."

"Like sex, right, Traci?" Amber frowned.

Traci laughed. "Well, or course, sex is _one_ thing."

I looked at Traci. My face was red. I could feel it. "Should I take my hand away?" I squeaked.

"Listen to your voice now, Truscott. It's so quiet and high." She drew a line across her neck with her finger, her own nasal voice becoming falsetto.

"There's nothing wrong with her voice," fumed Amber. "What do you know about her voice? Nothing. You're crazy."

"I've had three years of voice at Julliard, you creep," said Traci. "Lilly, I'll give you breathing lessons."

"Listen to her," growled Amber to Joannie and Ashley, who were still watching us intently.

"In…in six lessons, I'll have you breathing and painting at the same time." Traci's gaze was direct. "I like you, Lilly." she said softly. "I'd like to help you."

I shivered. Traci was standing close to me. Her body and her voice seemed to be melting into me. Or maybe I was melting into her.

"Are you sure you have time?" I wasn't sure if _I _did.

Her hand brushed my cheek. "It won't be difficult, Lilly."

I gulped. "Okay."

"Jesus," muttered Amber again.

Traci buttoned her leather overcoat and picked up her books. "In six lessons, Lilly. I promise. Meet me on Tuesday, Practice Room D." Traci grabbed the poster, wrinkling the edges, and banged out of the studio.

"So much for art," mused Amber.

I laughed. That was the beginning of Traci and me.

When the studio had emptied, I stood at the sink washing my brushes, warm water splashing over the black bristles and gurgling down the drain. Usually, the cleanup ritual relaxed me, but today I felt nervous; I couldn't stop thinking about Traci and the sudden strength of my feelings about her. What was it about Traci that reminded me of last summer and that conversation with my mom? It was the day that I told her I didn't want to go to Vassar, that I wanted to go to UCLA.

Mom had looked up from the newspaper. "Los Angeles is a rough city." My mother had lived in LA for 8 years before she married my father. "You'd get swallowed up, Lilly, coming from a school like Huntington Hill."

"I might not get swallowed up," I said tentatively.

My mom folded her newspaper. "People at UCLA are partiers. You gotta watch out for drugs." She was crazy about keeping me from being an alcoholic, or an addict.

"Mom, not everyone is like that. There are responsible people."

Mom stood up nervously and carefully dropped a handful of peppercorns into the silver pepper grinder. "They won't have the same upbringing as you, Lilly. You've honestly lived a very sheltered life. You're too high strung. People go off the _deep end_ and go on _massive benders_, and get _raped_. Particularly in those fraternities and sororities."

Getting raped. There was that expression. Mom used it a lot. She was always paranoid that every Tom, Dick, and Harry was going to snatch me up in a back alley and have their way with me.

"Mom, not everybody gets raped." I sighed in exasperation.

"Lilly, I didn't say you would get raped." Mom's hands shook as she poured some dish soap into the sink full of water. "I was thinking of Clarence Brown, your Uncle Wilhelm's roommate at Yale. He went to UCLA for a brief period of time. I met some of his friends. They were frat boys and gang bangers."

"Did Uncle Wilhelm get raped?"

"LILLIAN!" Mom's face was red. She sat back down in her chair.

"Mom, how come you could go live in LA with all these gang bangers, frat boys, and sleazy types and not get raped, but you think I will?"

"I need to order a deli tray for a party at the office," said my mom suddenly, grabbing her cell phone to check the internet for a phone number.

"I thought you were in court all week…"

"Los Angeles was different then, Lilly. I lived with my sister and her two roommates from Vassar and we knew lots of attractive, and well mannered young men."

"Did Aunt Connie know Clarence Brown?" I asked.

"_Everybody_ knew Clarence Brown." Mom's finger scrolled down her touch screen phone. "Clarence Brown was from Los Angeles and he was a complete gentleman."

"What's wrong with him then?" To be a complete gentleman was high praise from my Mom, who was leery of men ever since my folks got divorced.

My mom's face tightened. Her mouth turned down. "Clarence Brown never married nor had kids."

"Why, was he raped?" I knew I was pushing her buttons.

Mom stood by the door, hands on her hips. "Lilly, you're just being rude now. You know perfectly well that not all of my stories involve people being raped or murdered."

"Oh, then he was a _rapist_ and went to jail." I offered.

"Lilly, Clarence Brown was a fag," My mother said exasperated. "And that's the last I want to hear of it."


	2. The Start of Unexplained Feelings

The trophy room was too small for eleven players, three subs, two coaches, and a sofa, but that was the room chosen for sash tying, and sash tying took place every Friday afternoon before a varsity game. Kathleen Woodruff, the senior coach, knelt on the floor, cigarette tucked behind her ear, tying sashes around our tunics and mumbling advice to each player in a low, plentitude voice, like a priest saying mass. Cramped in the small space, with the unpleasant smell of macaroni and cheese drifting in from Century House dining room, we each waited anxiously for our turn and for Woody's private blessing. The ritual was supposed to 'psych' us up for the game. Sometimes I think it 'psyched' us too much. Players had been known to faint from fear by the time Woody got around to them.

I stood, not looking at the other players, but inspecting the room where we were gathered. The walls were covered with shelves of tarnished silver trophies and rows of team photographs from other years-girls posed in front of goalie cages and high cheek boned equestriennes mounted on huge, sleek horses. In most of the pictures, Woody stood stiffly beside the players, scowling, as if she wanted the photographer to know how much she disapproved of this frivolous interruption of her busy day. Over the years skirt lengths and hairstyles changed, but Woody always looked the same. Hitler could try to conquer Europe, numerous generations of G.I.s could serve for their country, but Woody's tweed skirts hit well below the knee, and her cardigan sweaters were buttoned once, just beneath the collars of her carefully laundered cotton blouses. Her curly auburn hair was neatly cropped and her thin legs were planted firmly on the ground; on her feet were polished leathers. The only events affecting Woody's dress were Parents' Weekend and graduation. On those occasions, two red spots of blush appeared on her cheeks, and instead of a wool skirt, she wore a lavender linen dress, with a gold circle pin fastened near the collar.

I looked from the photographs of Woody to the woman herself, as she looped a navy sash around Sonny Monroe's waist.

"Don't let their forwards pull you out of position," Woody growled. Sonny's cheeks turned pinker. "They did it last week," continued Woody. "Stay alert this time."

"Okay, Woody," mumbled Sonny, head lowered.

"Yes, Miss Woodruff," corrected the coach.

"Yes, Miss Woodruff," Sonny's face was deep red.

Woody's arms extended around Sonny's backside as she patted her backside. Though most public schools frowned on such actions, things here were different. Ass-patting was part of the ritual. The laying on of hands. Woody's last contact before sending us into battle.

I watched Woody's face, as she began on the next player. Her scowl seemed to have deepened over the summer. There was les warmth in her gruffness. She was more severe. I wondered if Corelli's presence had deepened her gloom. Of the entire faculty, Woody was the most affected by his arrival, and by the retirement of Miss Kunkle, whom she'd worked with for her duration. Under the headmistress, Woody ran the school. She enforced the rules; she approved weekend permission requests; she coached every sport and supervised the athletic program. Woody was the one who stood up each week in morning assembly and called for greater attention to dress, more order in study hall, and better manners in the dining room. Woody set the school's moral tone.

But moral tone, I guess, had not been the board of directors' priority when they replaced the headmistress. The new principal was supposed to bring the school up to date, modernize the curriculum, and increase endowments. Miss Kunkle, they said, was a terrible financial manager. Tuition bills were always late, and parents were "on their honor" to pay if they never received their bills at all. Money earmarked for outside speakers and current events was used instead for the Saturday night school movies, usually featuring her favorites with Doris Day and Cary Grant. Once in awhile we would get a treat of a modern movie, one that had been released in theaters eons ago. The last film we saw was 'Bolt'.

Albert Corelli was the man chosen by the board of directors to guide the school into the twenty first century. Corelli was thirty-four years old and had six years of teaching under his belt at a boys' school in West Virginia. He was the first man to work at Huntington Hill since Louis the bus driver and Joe the handyman joined the staff in 1982.

During the transition it was to Woody that we'd look for continuity and for the assurance that the school would not change overnight into the junior Marines or something worse. Woody had borne the role stoically, without complaint. She never discussed Albert Corelli with anyone. Only her scowl had deepened.

"Lillian." Woody mentioned to me. I stepped forward. I hated my legal name, and no one called me that. I held my breath as her bony hands wrapped the sash around my waist.

"Hey, kiddo, relax," she said, flicking her hands masterfully as she started to tie. "That's your problem, Truscott. You're too nervous. Do you think we'd have you playing if we thought you couldn't do it?"

"I…I don't know…"

"And for Christ sakes, use your dodges. Understand?"

"Yes…"

"Get going," she said, standing up slowly. A pained smile crossed her face. She looked over the group and called for silence.

Carter Mason, the lithe, beautifully proportioned half Italian, half Hispanic girl who had played on so many varsity teams that her blazer pocket was covered in letters and stars, raised her hand.

"Would you please hurry, Woody? I gotta pee."

The players laughed. "Wait one minute, Mason," snapped Woody. She scanned the room, her eyes connecting with each of us, and spoke in a low, sober voice.

"Ladies," she sighed. "You take a lot for granted. You're used to having things come easy. You're spoiled." She paused, letting her words sink in. "You won last week, so you think this week will be easy. If you win today, you'll get uppity about the next game. Well, don't, ladies. Don't take _anything_ for granted. You must enter every game with new energy, as if you're about to face the toughest team you've ever played. Do you understand?" She scanned the room.

Sonny looked at me and whispered, "She's mad today."

"But that won't work," Woody continued. "If you intend to be sloppy, don't come down to the field. We don't practice all week so you can forget your plays in the game." She looked at Carter, who was winding a hair tie around her long dark hair. "Do you understand, Miss Mason?"

"Yeah, Woody."

"Yes, Miss Woodruff."

"Yes, Miss Woodruff."

"Ladies…" Woody cleared her throat. "You represent this school when you're out on the field, and your conduct reflects upon all of us. I want to see skill, I want to see teamwork. I want to see fair play. Miss Spense, do you have anything to add?" Woody looked down at the young assistant coach who stood grimly beside her. Miss Spense had taught at Huntington Hill for only two years but she'd picked up Woody's mannerisms-her somber voice, her mannish gestures, her dowdy clothes. Miss Spense's best friend was Miss Gibbons, the American History teacher. The year before, a ninth grader claimed she'd seen them making out in Century House. Everyone was shocked, but no one really believed it, because it was just _too_ disgusting thinking of our teachers doing that. Besides, Miss Gibbons had a boyfriend.

"I think you said it all, Woody," intoned Miss Spense soberly. She looked down at her clipboard, fingered the silver whistle on her plastic lanyard, and craned forward. "Ladies, you know what you have to do-now get out there and do it."

That was it. The ritual was over. With relief, we picked up our gear and hurried out the front hall of Century House, our cleated rubber sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor. Outside, the school grounds looked green and manicured, as usual. The brown shingled classroom buildings were empty now, except for the janitors who were sweeping and cleaning for Monday. On the front porch of Century House a group of seniors sat tanning their legs, socks rolled to their ankles as they waited for the game.

Sonny and I walked down to the field.

Sonny always smelled of Noxzema. "Am I crazy, Lilly, or is Woody meaner this year?"

"I don't know. Maybe she's meaner. Why?"

Sonny shrugged. She never worried much or analyzed other people's behavior. "Woody's getting old, I guess. She's been around for a long time."

I looked down at the field. Students, dressed in blue uniforms and blazers, were beginning to fill the grandstands, and the cheerleaders, in white sweaters and blue skirts, were scurrying along the sidelines handing out words to the school songs.

"I think Corelli upsets her," I said slowly.

Sonny bumped me as she walked. "She's a teacher, Lilly. Teachers aren't like us. They don't fight all the time."

"Well, Corelli's not just another teacher. He's a man, and he's the headmaster."

Sonny touched my arm. Standing by the grandstand in his gray slacks and navy blazer, hair curled in a bouncy blonde mussed white boy 'fro, was Albert Corelli. His arms were folded in front of him-a general waiting for his troops to parade.

"Hi Mr. Corelli," said Sonny, grabbing a practice ball from the bag near his feet.

"Hello, Sonny. Best of luck." He grinned, flashing a thumbs up. Sonny looked at me with a smirk.

"Brown-nose!" I whispered.

"Stick with me, Lilly," she laughed, flicking a ball onto the field.

As we dribbled, I watched Corelli from the corner of my eye. He was a short man-about five foot seven, with a round, roly-poly body. I had liked him when he first came last year. He had hired some good teachers and the school seemed to be losing some of its stodginess. But even Corelli never talked about the outer world-about politics or war. He seemed more interested in who won the last horse race than in who won the presidential election. There was something phony about Mr. Corelli. He smiled all the time, even when you were talking seriously with him. Now, as he waited for the game to start, he was flashing his whitened teeth at all the girls and shaking hands with everyone who walked by.

On close inspection, there was something sleazy about him. Maybe it was his body hair. He had a lot of it; even at nine o'clock, at morning assembly, there was a blonde shadow on his jaws, accompanying a bushy goatee. When he rolled up his sleeves in his office, you could see little tufts of hair on his wrists, and some hair caught underneath his watchband. He sweated a lot too, and kept a handkerchief folded in his pocket to dab off perspiration from his lips and forehead. I once read in a book that people who sweat a lot are hiding something. It's a sign that the person is keeping a secret. I guess the school's board of directors didn't know that theory when they hired him.

The referees were ready to start the game. They blew their whistles and called the captains to the center of the field. The grandstands were full and the cheerleaders from both schools were prancing along the sidelines, leaping and cart wheeling in energetic spurts. I stood next to Sonny in the huddle. We felt uneasy after Woody's talk in the Trophy Room. Something funny was going on. And we were all aware of Corelli's presence on the sidelines.

Across the lawn, up towards Senior House, I could see a student walking slowly down the hill licking an ice cream cone. She moved with an air of nonchalance, as if she didn't care if the game had started or not. On the sidelines I saw Corelli greet her, extend his hand, and help her to a place beside him in the bleachers. It was Traci.

The image of Traci and Corelli sitting side by side in the grandstands stayed with me throughout the game. Traci was there to make me try harder; I ran faster and used more dodges. But why was she sitting with him? Why was she talking to him? Did Traci usually come to the hockey games? I tried to remember. Had she come to see me play? Had she planned to meet Corelli and sit with him? Hockey was a big deal at Huntington Hill. There were hockey brunches and award dinners, hockey sweaters, bake sales, and charm bracelets. Hockey players were used to a lot of attention. That's why the competition for varsity was so intense. But now I felt myself wanting more than the school's attention. I wanted Traci's attention. I wanted _her_ to be watching me. And on that day, I played for Traci.

* * *

It was raining hard the day of my first voice lesson. Hockey practice was canceled and the spell of clear days was broken. The school had the cold, dreary feeling of an army camp digging in for a long, slow siege. Winter was approaching.

I walked the long way around Knowlton to get to the basement music rooms. I didn't want to run into Thelma Anne Mosby, the housemother, who had a suite on the ground floor. Thelma Anne was sixty-nine years old, wore spike heels and baby blue, glitter flecked glasses, and grew up in Roanoke, Virginia. At some point in her life, Thelma Anne had taught English literature at Randolph-Macon Women's College, and she never let her students forget that in better days she had shaped the hearts and minds of the South's finest _college_ women. Huntington Hill, she made it quite clear, was exile for her, a painful compromise; each time she mentioned Randolph-Macon, she lifted her eyes towards heaven and drew a Vicks scented Puffs from her sleeve. Her mouth, held in a strained half smile, would quiver, as she silently pined for the Old South and the days of well mannered ladies and honey throated gentlemen.

Thelma Anne did not appear. Practice Room D was a small, dark cell with two small windows close to the ceiling and no furniture except for the piano. The room was empty. I sat at the piano, found middle C on the keyboard, and tapped it lightly. I looked at the door-no sign of Traci-and touched the keyboard again, slowly and ploddingly playing nonsense notes in boredom.

"Shit." The door swung open and there stood Traci, face flushed, trench coat sopping, a pile of scripts in her arms. "I'm wet," she said, dropping her load onto the piano bench. "How are you, Lilly?" The smell of her highly expensive perfume filled the room as she sat down beside me, her blue uniform clinging to her body, skirt rising above her knees. Drops of rain still glistened on her cheeks.

"Ugh, it's SO hot in here," she said, opening a window. "Don't you want to take your coat off?"

For some reason, I was embarrassed to take my coat off in front of Traci. "I get cold easy," I said.

Traci shrugged. "Suit yourself." She ran her hands through her wet hair and took a deep breath. "Where shall we start?" Her brown eyes rested on mine. "By the way," she said, "Great game on Friday. You were terrific. I couldn't take my eyes off of you."

I stared at her.

"Hockey game? Remember? You played St. Luke's on Friday?" Traci snapped her fingers. "You there, Truscott? This is Traci Van Horn. Tune in."

"You came?" I said finally.

"Yes, idiot." She poked my ribs. "That's what I said."

I smiled. "Did you…was that _you_ with Corelli?"

Traci rolled her eyes in disgust. "Ugh, GOD, he's a creep. He wanted to discuss the Drama Club's upcoming show. I think he's a pervert." Traci leaned over and pulled up her falling knee socks.

"Do you think Corelli's a creep?" I said.

Traci looked at me. "Of course he's a creep. What's your problem today, Lilly? Are you here?"

"I'm here"

"Okay then. Let's start." Traci inhaled deeply. I tried to focus on her eyes, but that made me embarrassed, so I just stared in her general direction. "What we want to do," she began, "is start you breathing easily when you paint, so that the air's going all the way down, deep down into your lungs, and you're really using your diaphragm. Do you know where that is?" Traci squeezed the space just under her ribs. I blushed. The word _diaphragm_ always reminded me of sex, and the drawer holding a box of condoms, lube, and other toys I had once found in my mom's nightstand.

"Now," continued Traci, "what keeps you from breathing correctly is tension. Are you ever aware of tension?" She looked at me quizzically. "Maybe we'll start just by having a little conversation in our normal voices. Just talk a little bit and remember to take deep breaths, like this." Traci inhaled, and as she did, her full breasts rose and pressed against her cotton uniform. "Okay, start talking, Lilly. Talk about anything. Talk about the hockey game. I don't care."

I took a breath. I could hear my voice-high and tight. "The hockey game last Friday was with St. Luke's and we played pretty well. We scored and…" I stopped. I realized that if I talked about the game, I might start saying that I'd thought about Traci through the whole game.

"What's the matter?"

"Maybe I'll talk about something else. I'll tell you about the time Thelma Anne Mosby grounded me for brewing hard cider."

Traci laughed. "I'd forgotten about that."

"I put the cider out on our windowsill and forgot about it. When it got hard, Sonny passed it around, and Thelma found out and told Woody I was keeping alcohol in the dorm. She wanted to expel me."

"That's ridiculous," said Traci.

"Woody told her it was a mistake."

Traci smiled. "Truscott, here's what you're doing wrong. You're cutting off your own voice--here," she put her hands just above her waist, "because you're not breathing deeply. And here," she brushed her hands across her throat, "so that the sound doesn't come out."

"That's bad."

"It's not so bad," said Traci. "Try doing diaphragm lessons with a deviated septum." She laughed as she eyed me, making fun of her nasal condition. I giggled in like. "Okay." Traci continued, and reached for my hand and placed it on her stomach. I could feel her slip beneath her uniform. "Now, feel my abdomen rise and fall as I breathe. Feel it?"

"Yep," I gulped.

"Okay, now," she said, "lie on the floor."

I looked at her.

"Don't worry, just lie down and breathe. It'll be easier from the floor."

I stared at her.

"Here, I'll show you," she said, sliding off the bench and stretching out on the linoleum. Her skirt rose up higher on her thighs. Gingerly, I sat down with her.

"Now," she said in a soothing voice, "just breathe slowly in and out, in and out, in and out." The room was quiet except for our breathing, the gurgle of the radiator, and the distant sound of piano scales in another practice room. Traci's torso, next to mine, rose and fell. I tried to imitate her, but I couldn't relax.

She sat up slowly. Her brown eyes looked down at my own steely gaze. Her dark hair was still wet and framed her face. She placed one hand on my stomach, like a doctor. I could feel a tingling between my legs. "Now," she said, "let's see if you can talk and breathe at the same time."

I started to get up.

"No. Stay there." She said. "Try saying, 'do you know May?'"

"What?"

"'Do you know May?' It's a nonsense phrase."

It was very hard to say, 'Do you know May?' Something about the name May embarrassed me. I had never known anyone named May. I tried to say it.

"That's good," said Traci. Her hand was still on my taut stomach. I thought I might pass out. Maybe it was from all the breathing- hyperventilation or something.

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock on the door.

Traci squinted. "Who is it?"

The door opened slowly. "Hello?" came a small voice. A freshman carrying a red umbrella peeked through the door and looked down on us. We were still on the floor. Traci's hand rested on my stomach.

"What is it?" Traci said irritably. "We're in the middle of a lesson."

"I'm looking for Drama Club auditions. Is this the right room?" The new girl's voice was uncertain.

"Shit." Traci jumped up. "This is the right room. Come in. I'm Traci Van Horn."

"I'm Harper," said the new girl. She looked at me apprehensively.

"We're having a voice lesson," said Traci. "Don't worry; you won't have to lie on the floor."

Traci helped me to my feet. "Your hands are cold, Lilly." She said.

"I guess."

"For the next time, Lilly, practice 'Do you know May?' in front of a mirror." Traci was back on the piano bench now, flipping through a script. She invited the new girl to sit next to her and do a dry reading, handing her a script and pointing out which lines she wanted her to read. Without interrupting the interaction, Traci looked up from her own script and winked at me.


End file.
